


Pride

by CRScully



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, Gen, Graphic, Horror, Madness, Murder, Poetry, Pride, Serial Killer, Spoken Word, psychotic, religious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3068483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CRScully/pseuds/CRScully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man's pride can be his downfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride

Pride.

The fall is long and monotonous and time consuming.

I fall slowly with no mind of a seasonal, evolving world.

I fall slowly to my death.

Everything streaks by in sound and color and sharp branches that tear at my clothing with their Leafy fingers.

But nothing is real and nothing matters.

Pride.

Words like venom that burn my tongue as they drip through my lips and make me hemorrhage with unbridled desire.

“I’m not afraid of doing God’s job.”

This type of virus can live outside the body.

I remember, fondly, cutting down the life of a man just as easily as a gardener cuts branches from a tree.

The tree of life.

And at the helm of the tree of life was me;

I was God.

I was God sent to earth to rid it of the many animals of man who revel in disease and Debauchery.

Those members of the herd unfit to eat.

Pride.

“I’m not afraid of doing God’s job.”

They called me a holy man sent to eradicate the evilness inside all of their warm, beating hearts.

They said that I held a candle in the darkness next to the face of every whore, every thief, every Rapist, every murderer, every adulterer, every drunkard, every man.

But I was a baby killer.

I was the finger pointer.

I parted the clouds like Moses parting the Red Sea and peered down on the brothels and back Alleys and taverns and judged every soul therein.

I was the punisher.

And I punished with not the Holy Book, but the holy baseball bat and holy shotgun.

Pride.

“I’m not afraid of doing God’s job.”

For the shortest, most blissful moment,

I was God.

And I was an  angry  Messiah.

I was the prophets and St. Peter and I was the judge and the executioner all in a neat little box, Just how we like it.

I remember, fondly, the feel of a man’s brains in my hands and on my clothing.

He was opened to me; baring his mind and his soul to God so that I may inspect the life this Animal chose to inhabit.

Blood on my face--so blatant and obvious to the Lord and anyone else in that brick-and-mortar Jungle, for that matter.

And I was proud.

It was my badge of courage.

The symbol of my power and of the position that Zeus himself inspired like fiery lightning in my Skull.

Given to me, blessed upon me.

Illuminated in a dream.

They lined the carcasses up along the street for my inspection, though they did not know I walked Among them.

They warned the herd with anguished cries and prolonged, desperate mewlings that I was Coming for them.

And I was proud.

Pride.

“I’m not afraid of doing God’s job!”

I screamed behind me as I ran half naked through the forest that is the city streets.

The people--the wild animals of Suburbia--stared on in horror and shock and amusement and I had Never been more proud.

Blood on my face.

Blood on my bare chest and on my groin and in little dry pieces in my hair and caked on my lips Where I had drank deeply the blood from God’s cup.

Unapologetically.

The wild streets had succumbed to God’s will and I had attempted to tame his terrible creatures.

But these things never last because the wild man is crazed and delusional and does not wish to Be tamed by the Lord.

The vermin and I arrive at a clearing in the forest--Wabash and 2nd Street where I had lived in My childhood--and I turned back to try and appease the herd of man cattle that had chased me Thus far as if  I  were the animal.

I look into their faces--if you could call those maniacally twisted feature such--and they were wild And bloodshot and crazed with a look of bloody anticipation and lust that would not yield.

Thinking quickly, I said the only words I knew had any chance of calming and appeasing them,

“I’m not afraid of doing God’s job!”

From the pack, one creature stepped forward, also half naked and flesh ripped with scratches and bursting with Bruises and blood and, reaching up with it’s filthy, disease-ridden animal paw, pushed me into The noisy clearing.

Pride.

The fall is long and monotonous and time consuming.

I fall slowly with no mind of a seasonal, evolving world.

I fall slowly to my death.

Everything streaks by in sound and color and sharp branches that tear at my clothing with their Leafy fingers.

But nothing is real and nothing matters.

Pride.

****  
And then this big, black SUV just smashes me to pieces and the blood of the savior of the cattle floods the streets in a tidal wave that ends me. And I am proud.   


**Author's Note:**

> The violence in this is only semi graphic and brief, but it still occurs. Inspired by my own thoughts on religious fanaticism and what it can drive people to do. You can probably discern my opinion on such individuals who practice the art.


End file.
